The book is by Jean Sasson, Omar and Najwa Bin Laden.
Reading some of the reviews you can tell this book is very fascinating and it might become a bestseller.
The most interesting bit for me was the fact that Osama's father lost the sight on one eye after he was hit by a Somali
"After traveling through the dusty villages and towns of Yemen, they arrived at the port of Aden. From there they sailed a short distance across the Gulf of Aden to Somalia. In Somalia, the two bin Laden boys were employed by a cruel taskmaster, known for his furious outbursts. One day he became so annoyed at my grandfather that he hit him on the head with a heavy stick.The injury resulted in the loss of sight in one eye. My grandfather and uncle were forced to return to their village until his recovery"
It is an interesing coincidence that Osama himself had an accident that almost left him blind in one eye
Enjoy the read...
Vanity fair Excerps from the book : link
Since the time I could observe and reason, I have mainly known my father to be composed, no matter what might be happening. That’s because he believes that everything of earthly life is in the hands of God. It is difficult, therefore, for me to imagine that he became so excited when my mother told him I was about to be born that he momentarily misplaced his keys.
After a frantic search, I’m told he settled my mother hastily in the car before spinning off at a reckless speed. Luckily he had recently purchased a new automobile, the latest Mercedes, because on that day he tested all its working parts. I’ve been told it was golden in color, something so beautiful that I imagine the vehicle as a golden carriage tearing through the wide palm-tree-lined boulevards of Jeddah, Saudia Arabia.
Within a short while after that chaotic journey, I made my appearance, becoming the fourth child born to my parents.
I was only one of many in a chain of strong personalities in our bin Laden family. My father, although quiet-natured in many ways, has always been a man that no other man can control. My paternal grandfather, Mohammed Awad bin Laden, was also quite famous for his strength of character. After the premature death of his father, who left behind a grieving widow and four young children, Grandfather bin Laden sought his fortune without a clue as to where he would end up. He was the eldest at 11 years.
Since Yemen offered few possibilities in those days, my grandfather bravely turned his back on the only land and the only people he had ever known, taking his younger brother, Abdullah, with him to join one of the many camel caravans trekking through the area.
After traveling through the dusty villages and towns of Yemen, they arrived at the port of Aden. From there they sailed a short distance across the Gulf of Aden to Somalia. In Somalia, the two bin Laden boys were employed by a cruel taskmaster, known for his furious outbursts. One day he became so annoyed at my grandfather that he hit him on the head with a heavy stick.
The injury resulted in the loss of sight in one eye. My grandfather and uncle were forced to return to their village until his recovery. The following year they set out once again, this time traveling in the opposite direction, north to Saudi Arabia. I’m sure they were eager to stop at many outposts, but nothing seemed to have the magic they were seeking. The two boys, young and unlettered, lingered only long enough to earn sufficient money to stave off hunger and to continue what must have seemed an endless journey. Something about Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, appealed to my grandfather, because that walled city on the Red Sea marked the end of their arduous voyage.
Grandfather bin Laden was poor yet he was full of energy and determination. He felt no shame in tackling any honest labor. Jeddah was the ideal place for such a character, for the city and the country were at an economic turning point. In the early 1930s, my grandfather’s vigor, strength of mind, and attention to detail caught the attention of an assistant to King Abdul Aziz, the first king of Saudi Arabia, who had recently won many tribal wars and formed a new country.
No one knew it at the time, but Saudi Arabia was set to become one of the richest and most influential countries in the world. After the formation of the kingdom, in 1932, and the discovery of oil, in 1938, the kingdom entered a building boom never before witnessed. When the King wanted a new building or new roadway constructed, he turned to my grandfather. My grandfather’s diligence and honesty so pleased the King that he was put in charge of the most coveted job for a believer, the expansion of the Grand Mosque in Mecca.
Everyone in our family knows that our Grandfather bin Laden had two main passions: work and women. He was extremely successful in both arenas. His ethic for hard work and total sincerity won him the complete trust of the King. With hard work came financial rewards, which enabled my grandfather to satisfy his second passion: women
In my culture, it is not uncommon for men, particularly the very wealthy and the very poor, to have four wives simultaneously. My grandfather was soon so rich that he not only married four women but continually emptied several of the four marriage positions so that he could fill the vacated slots with new wives.
With so many wives and ex-wives, my grandfather had so many children that it was difficult for him to maintain a relationship with each child. As was the custom, he did give extra attention to the eldest sons, but most of his children were seen only on important occasions. This did not mean he did not follow the progress of his children; he would take time out of his busy schedule to make cursory checks to ensure that his sons were advancing in school or that his daughters married well.
Since my father was not one of the eldest sons, he was not in a position to see his father regularly. In addition, my grandfather’s marriage to my father’s Syrian mother, Grandmother Allia, was brief. After my father’s birth, his mother became pregnant by Grandfather bin Laden for a second time, but when she lost that baby to a miscarriage, she asked her husband for a divorce. For some reason, the divorce was easily given and my Grandmother Allia was free, soon remarried to Muhammad al-Attas and becoming the mother of four more children.
Despite the fact that his stepfather was one of the finest men in Saudi Arabia, my father’s life did not evolve as he wished. Like most children of divorced parents, he felt a loss, for he was no longer as intimately involved with his father’s family. Although my father was never one to complain, it is believed that he keenly felt his lack of status, genuinely suffering from his father’s lack of personal love and care.
I know how my father felt. After all, I’m one of 20 children. I’ve often felt that same lack of attention from my father.
My father was known to everyone in and out of the family as the somber bin Laden boy who became increasingly occupied with religious teachings. As his son, I can attest to the fact that he never changed. He was unfailingly pious, always taking his religion more seriously than most. He never missed prayers. He devoted many hours to the study of the Koran, and to other religious sayings and teachings.
Although most men, regardless of their culture, are tempted by the sight of a different female from the ones in their life, my father was not. In fact, he was known to avert his eyes whenever a woman not of his family came into his view. To keep away from sexual temptation, he believed in early marriages. That’s the reason he made the decision to marry when he was only 17 years old.
I’m pleased that my mother, Najwa Ghanem, who was my father’s first cousin, was his first wife. The position of the first wife is prestigious in my culture, and that prestige is tripled when the first wife is a first cousin and mother of a first son. Rarely does a Muslim man divorce a wife who is a cousin and the mother of the firstborn son. My parents were bound by blood, marriage, and parenthood.
Never did I hear my father raise his voice in anger to my mother. He always seemed very satisfied with her. In fact, when I was very small, there were times that he and my mother secluded themselves in their bedroom, not to be seen by the family for several days, so I know that my father enjoyed my mother’s company.
Although I cannot simply order my heart to stop loving my father, I do not agree with his behavior. There are times that I feel my heart swell with anger at his actions, which have harmed many people, people he did not know, as well as members of his own family. As the son of Osama bin Laden, I am truly sorry for all the terrible things that have happened, the innocent lives that have been destroyed, the grief that still lingers in many hearts.
My father was not always a man who hated. My father was not always a man hated by others. There was a time when many people spoke of my father with the highest accolades. History shows that he was once loved by many people. Despite our differences, I am not ashamed to admit that I loved my father with the usual passion of a young boy for his father. In fact, when I was a young boy, I worshipped my father, whom I believed to be not only the most brilliant but also the tallest man in the world.
I do have fond memories of my childhood. One early recollection involved teasing about a man having more than one wife. Many times when my father was sitting with his male friends, he would call out for me to come to him. Excited, I would follow the sound of his voice. When I would appear in the room, my father would be smiling at me, before asking, “Omar, how many wives are you going to have?”
Although I was too young to know anything of men and women and marriage, I did know the answer he was seeking. I would hold up four fingers and gleefully shout, “Four! Four! I will have four wives!”
My father and his friends would laugh with delight.
I loved making my father laugh. He laughed so seldom.
Many people found my father to be a genius, particularly when it came to mathematical skills. It was said that his own father was a numerical genius who could add up large columns of numbers in his head.
My father was so well known for the skill that there were times that men would come to our home and ask him to match his wits against a calculator. Sometimes he would agree, and other times not. When he would good-naturedly accept the challenge, I would grow so nervous that I would forget to breathe.
Each time I believed that he would fail the test. Each time I was wrong. We were all staggered that no calculator could equal my father’s remarkable ability, even when presented with the most complicated figures. Father would calculate lengthy and complex figures in his head while his friends struggled to catch up to the math whiz with their calculators. I’m still amazed and have often wondered how any human being could have such a natural ability.
His phenomenal memory fascinated many who knew him. His favorite book was the Koran, so on occasion he would entertain those who would ask by reciting the Koran word for word. I would stand quietly in the background, often with a Koran in my hand, checking his recitation carefully. My father never missed a word. I can tell the truth now, that as I grew in years, I became secretly disappointed. For some strange reason, I wanted my father to miss a word here and there. But he never did.
He once confessed that he had mastered the feat when he was only 10 years old, during a time of great mental turmoil after his own father had been killed in an airplane accident. Whatever the explanation for his rare gift, his champion performances made for many extraordinary moments.
I have bad memories, along with the good. Most inexcusable in my mind is that we were kept as virtual prisoners in our home in Jeddah.
There were many dangers lurking for the ones who had become involved in that increasingly complex quagmire that had begun with the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan two years before I was born. My father had become such an important figure in the struggle that he had been told that political opponents might kidnap one of his children or even murder members of his family.
Because of such warnings, my father ordered his children to remain inside our home. We were not to be allowed to play outside, even in our own garden. After a few hours of halfhearted play in the hallways, my brothers and I would spend many long hours staring out the apartment windows, longing to join the many children we saw playing on the sidewalks, riding their bikes or skipping rope.
My father’s piety made him strict in other ways. Although we lived in Jeddah—one of the hottest and most humid cities in a country that is known for its hot climate—my father would not allow my mother to turn on the air-conditioning that the contractor had built into the apartment building. Neither would he allow her to use the refrigerator that was standing in the kitchen. My father announced, “Islamic beliefs are corrupted by modernization.” Therefore, our food spoiled if we did not eat it on the day it was purchased. If my mother requested milk for her toddlers, my father had it delivered straight from cows kept on his family farm for just such a purpose.
My mother was allowed to cook her meals on a gas stove. And the family was permitted to use the electrical lighting, so at least we were not stumbling around in the dark, using wax candles to light dark rooms, or cooking food over an open fire.
My siblings and I hated such impractical directives, although my mother never complained.
My father relented when it came to football—or soccer, as Americas call it. When he brought a ball home, I remember the shock of seeing him smile sweetly when he saw how excited his sons became at the sight of it. He confessed that he had a fondness for playing soccer and would participate in the sport when he had time.
You might have guessed by now that my father was not an affectionate man. He never cuddled with me or my brothers. I tried to force him to show affection, and was told that I made a pest of myself. When he was home, I remained near, pulling attention-gaining pranks as frequently as I dared. Nothing sparked his fatherly warmth. In fact, my annoying behavior encouraged him to start carrying his signature cane. As time passed, he began caning me and my brothers for the slightest infraction.
Thankfully, my father had a different attitude when it came to the females in our family. I never heard him shout at his mother, his sisters, my mother, or my sisters. I never saw him strike a woman. He reserved all the harsh treatment for his sons.
I remember one particular time, during the Russian occupation of Afghanistan, when he had been away for longer than usual. I was desperate for his attention. He was sitting on the floor quietly studying intricate military maps. I watched him as he carefully laid his map flat on the floor, his earnest face puckered in thought, meticulously studying every hill and valley, mentally preparing for the next military campaign.
I suddenly ran past him, laughing loudly, skipping, striving to capture his attention. He waved me away, saying in a stern voice, “Omar, go out of the room.” I darted out the door and stared at him for a few moments; then, unable to hold back my childlike excitement, I burst back into the room, laughing and skipping, performing a few more tricks. After the fourth or fifth repetition of my bouncing appearance, my exasperated father looked at me and ordered me in his quiet voice, “Omar, go and gather all your brothers. Bring them to me.”
I leapt with glee, believing that I had tempted my father away from his military work. I gathered up each of my brothers, speaking rapidly in an excited voice: “Come! Father wants to see us all! Come!”
My father ordered us to stand in a straight line. He stood calmly, watching as we obediently gathered, one hand clutching his wooden cane. I was grinning happily, certain that something very special was about to happen. I stood in restless anticipation, wondering what sort of new game he was about to teach us. Perhaps it was something he played with his soldiers, some of whom I had heard were very young men.
Shame, anguish, and terror surged throughout my body as he raised his cane and began to walk the human line, beating each of his sons in turn. A small lump ballooned in my throat.
My father never raised his soft voice as he reprimanded my brothers, striking them with the cane as his words kept cadence, “You are older than your brother Omar. You are responsible for his bad behavior. I am unable to complete my work because of his badness.”
I was in the greatest anguish when he paused before me. I was very small at the time, and to my childish eyes, he appeared taller than the trees. Despite the fact I had witnessed him beating my brothers, I could not believe that my father was going to strike me with that heavy cane.
But he did.
The indignity was unbearable, yet none of us cried out, knowing that such an emotional display would not have been manly. I waited until he turned his back to walk away before running in the opposite direction. I could not face my brothers, knowing that they were sure to blame me for bringing our father’s cane down on their backs and legs.
During my childhood, I can recall one magical moment when my father held me in his arms. The charmed incident was connected to prayer time.
When Father was home, he commanded his sons to accompany him to the mosque. One day, when we were at the farm, the sound of the Muezzin’s call to the midday prayer rang out. My father in turn called out for us to join him. I was excited, looking upon prayer time as a wonderful excuse to be near my father. On that day I failed to slip on my sandals, which we always kept by the front door, a custom in our country.
At midday, the sands are blistering hot. Running about without sandals, the bare soles of my feet were soon burning. I began jumping about, crying out from the pain. My father stunned me when he leaned his tall figure low and lifted me into his arms.
My mouth went dry from disbelief. Never could I recall being held in my father’s arms. I was instantly happy, leaning in close. My father always used the marvelous incense called Aoud, which has a pleasing musklike scent.
I looked down at my brothers from my favored high perch and grinned, feeling jubilant, like the privileged dwarf atop the giant’s shoulders, seeing beyond what the giant could see.
I was only four or five years old at the time, but I was stocky. My father was tall and thin and, although fit, was not very muscular. Even before we reached the mosque door, I could sense that I had become a heavy burden. He began breathing heavily, and for that I was sorry. Yet I was so proud to be nestled in his capable arms that I clung tightly, wanting to remain in that secure spot forever. Too soon he deposited me on the ground and walked away, leaving me to scramble behind him. My short legs failed to match his impossibly long strides.
Soon my father appeared as elusive as a distant mirage.
